


The Phoenix

by heartstone



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Dream Sex, During Melkor's Imprisonment, M/M, Masturbation, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-19
Updated: 2019-02-19
Packaged: 2019-10-31 06:09:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17843915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartstone/pseuds/heartstone
Summary: Melkor recalls a vision of Mairon while imprisoned in Mandos.***





	The Phoenix

The Halls of Mandos were silent, save the soft shifting of flame that lit the smooth, sheer walls outside His hanging cage with their ethereal hue. They sounded like the wind over the feathers of a bird or a tiny disturbance of still water lapping stone; faint as a whisper, naught more than a maddening puff that the auditor could convince himself was a figment, if so inclined. Melkor focused His attentions on one particular torch just in front of Him, and ever out of reach. Somehow the pale light that came from it was dimmed, as if under eclipse, and it shone a gentle blue like hoarfrost, suggesting cold rather than heat. It stood upright upon the argent sconce, at attention like a guard poised over Him in His cage. Melkor grunted- the tall, slender cone of the flame barely moved, and He thought it amusing that despite being altogether free of bars it still did not twist and flare like any sensible fire aught to.

 

He shifted slowly in His position against the side of the cage to better peer out at the light, ignoring the protest of the metal as He moved. Already Melkor had been humiliated, yet Manwë nonetheless had still felt it appropriate to keep Melkor in an oversized bird cage made of the same adamant substance as Angainor and done in that distinctly flourished pattern of the higher courts. In addition to this demeaning gaol, He was suspended in the air above a small pool of blessed water, and He caught sight momentarily of the eerie stillness of it below Him, wherein the pool looked like a solid crystal looking-glass more than any liquid, obscured slightly by a shimmering silver vapor that undulated about its glossy surface. He glanced away quickly. Loath He was to admit it (even to Himself), but the water gave Him a terrible sense of foreboding and reminded Him too much of the flooding of Utumno’s depths.

 

Yet, despite His imprisonment and His restraints, Melkor found that with great effort and concentration He could impart some bits of His will on the surrounding flames, knowing that it was a waste to spend Himself on urging the water below to His bidding, being firmly in Ulmo’s sway. But the flames were ever-eager to bend their slender summits towards Him in strange obeisance or to surge forth against the glimmering, unnatural white of the limestone. And, as Melkor had found earlier, He could manipulate their hues.

 

Melkor's eyes were as cooling magma: a thin shell of black unlight, cold and piercing as a needle, yet gaze too long and one would find the surface but a cloak for the hot vibrancy submerged beneath, molten and deadly. He fixed them on that single candle, concentrating all His Fëa upon the silken sheet of its flames, the fire quivering slowly with the pressure of His eyes. It did not resist long, and the sound of its combustion was now more sure than it had been afore: a rustling now, as of fabric whipping in some strong wind. . . Mesmerized, the Dark Lord sat wide-eyed, intent upon watching every movement: the passioned sway of its tapered summit near-extinguished and its full body balanced upon the wick, dimming.

 

It was not His eyes that reflected the diminished flame, but the flame counterfeit to what played upon His eyes, mimicking every movement it saw upon those orbs as the black parted for a pupil of red. There His desire was made manifest, and Melkor replayed under the angle of His thick lashes the movements of a dance that He had seen long ago. . .

 

Slowly, as from a blanket of grey, a figure could be seen. It arose from within, uncurling from the shapeless orb of the fire that was left upon the seared wick. Standing erect, the figure stretched its lithe limbs and shook free the soot that coated it, contrast dark against the mandorla of white fire about it. Its arms spread, the dry soot cracking like parched earth and falling like molted feathers, fading, diminishing into the air. Their loss revealed the figure’s bronzed skin which glowed faintly with some internal radiance, and a few final intriguing patterns painted with chalk and volcanic ash fell after the soot before it.

 

Melkor dared not breathe, dared not blink. He watched, trembling with all His focus and longing as the figure’s features sharpened and gained a crisp clarity. The figure wore nothing but jewels, as was his wont, and a bedlah which was embroidered and cut to look like the feathers of a peacock, with two narrow openings on the sides of the skirt to free the movement of his legs and reveal their shapeliness as they appeared and disappeared from under: a teasing glimpse of firm calves and flexed thighs. It was Mairon, of course, and he looked so real that Melkor had to clench the bars of His cage to keep from reaching out to caress the figure as he began to dance.

 

He began slowly, swaying his hips in a suggestive way, tracing phantom circles in the air while allowing his arms and hands to exaggerate the rocking of his body as they raised above his head, the fanned fingers from each of his hands nearly touching. His head fell back and his hair spilled and sparked, glowing more vibrant, his neck and body long and sensual. Melkor followed the curve of his pose, outstretched to be devoured- from the glower of his eyes under kohl-darkened lids and rays of gold lashes, to the press of ribs under velvet flesh, a flat stomach, and the long grace of his legs from under the swish of thin, flowing silk. His belt of gold coins and polished chains of beaded gems clinked against one another, and for a moment, Mairon stayed like this, glowing brighter with each to-and-fro, hypnotizing.

 

Soon, however, the beat changed: though Melkor could only hear it through Mairon’s movements rather than in sound. As a flame he had dispelled the ash and soot and was now a beam of golden light, shimmering in many colours. His arms trailed down in a wide arc above his head so that they fell palms out, and Mairon turned his chin down, the plush curve of his lips painted red with cinnabar, gold-dust upon his high cheeks and crushed gemstones shimmering iridescent on his shoulders. Melkor licked his lips, captivated by that shimmer and the hollow of his neck which invited Him to bury His face, to kiss and to lick and to _bite._ The fire around Mairon grew, doubling upon the point of the candle, surging and swelling with a fervent carnality, maturing into a vibrant crimson.

 

His hands, seeming gentle, came at last upon his hips, which metamorphosed their movements from a mere flowing sway to a punctuated staccato that reminded Melkor too much of certain nights wherein His Maia would sit astride Him and take his pleasure as he would. Those sinuous movements made Him flush, blood burning, but still He was unable to look away for fear of breaking the enchantment, of missing but a moment of that dance. Mairon rolled his hips and trailed his hands up his body, mouth pursed and eyes shut tight in ecstasy as they stilled at the crook his small waist, ceasing their gestures to accentuate the line and shape of his hips. The embroidered feathers on the bedlah in greens and blues burned slowly away at the hem as his movements grew fervid, never ceasing their motion and sending an inferno up about him, a hellish halo.

 

Melkor _moaned,_ long and desperate. Pleasure pooled deep within Him as He watched, drenching His Fëa, the source of all the torrents of His desire, spreading now to His groin. He was well-neigh vibrating with His need, seizing the bars of the cage as hard as He could. _'If this does not break them,'_ He thought, _'_ _nothing will.'_ Slowly He snaked His hand down, parting the meagre fabric of His prisoner’s garb blindly, touching Himself only slowly so His concentration would not waver.

 

His cock was heavy between His legs, and throbbed with the soundless beat of Mairon’s hips. The Maia began to turn now, each movement to the right turning him a little more until the long opening in his skirt revealed the curve of his ass. Melkor shuddered, grasping the base of His cock to firmly stroke Himself in time with the now torturous movements Mairon made, teeth worrying His lower lip as He trailed His stare like honey along Mairon's spine and the dimples on his lower back, just above the gold of his belt. He felt like He was being plucked on by that vision, strummed by the expert designs of the flickering conflagration. Mairon threw a glance over his shoulder and smirked at Him, letting his tresses fall down his back between the wings of his shoulder blades. Melkor's strokes fell out of tempo and He groaned.

 

The cage rattled with that sound, like rumbling thunder, and He cursed but kept the vision going. All His power was bent upon it, and He cared now about nothing else but the dramatic, sensual movements and the glimmering shapes and intense heat that now radiated from the blaze and upon His ever-entranced face. His other hand gripped a bar for support while His other tried feverishly to imitate the hand of His Maia, and Melkor was forced to bite His cheeks to keep from calling out in His hedonism, blood tingling on His tongue like liquid copper and only driving Him further to bliss. In His delirium, He thought He could even smell Mairon around Him, cinnamon and honey and the musk of their sex making Him hum behind closed lips and clenched teeth.

 

The fiery image of His Little Flame joined Him when his skirts finished burning up and his jewelry glowed red-hot and shattered or melted down his trembling thighs as he danced now with his hands only, one encircling the tight bud of his nipple and the other between his legs like Melkor’s own, taking their pleasure quick and merciless, bounding toward the climax of the dance. The flame fell to his knees in a tremor that sent spears of light in all directions. Melkor could not take His eyes from those beautiful features, contorted now in exquisite, hasty, pleasure just like that of his Master. His hips still moved, frenzied, and the burst of white-hot light that surrounded Mairon would have seared the eyes of all but the mightiest. In a final crescendo, in which Melkor could not bear to hold His concentration any longer, Mairon opened his mouth and with such a husky tenor—

 

**_“Melkor!”_ **

 

The vision fell into a sudden haze, a blur of colour and in an implosion of flame which quickly condensed into a lead-white orb, charring the limestone, vaporizing the candle, and melting the top of the silver sconce that held it up. Color erupted across His vision as He came, swirling in a sea of violent colour, an imprint of that last image of Mairon, body taut, was seared into His retinas and the sound which He so clearly heard rung in His ears. The bird cage rattled and the support chains seemed to groan with Him in His spasming bliss. Even the pool below Him was disturbed.

 

Slowly, but surely the colours faded into the pale, grim hues of the Halls of Mandos, and the cage stopped quivering as Melkor lay, spent and spread out now at the bottom. A cold sweat covered Him in a thick sheen and He slept, exhausted.

 

***

 

Somewhere far away, Mairon awoke, clenching the sheets tightly and burning through the threads. Had he screamed? Mairon shuddered, letting out a shaky, throaty moan and fell back against the cushions, arm spread out to the side of the bed Melkor usually lay.

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a quick and angsty addition to my little collection of works, but it ended up taking me several hours and turned into rather naughty belly-dance :P I decided it was worthy of being on its own.  
> Lets hope Mandos had the foresight not to walk in while Melkor was. . . busy, haha.  
> ***


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